The Last Man of Redemption
by FewAndFarBetween
Summary: What if Booth had been trapped inside that coma for much longer? What if he'd experienced a taste of more than just one different reality? And how would he recognize the truth when the insanity of it all finally breaks him?


This new story idea came to me while I was listening to my Bones playlist... I have two, one of songs from the show, and one of songs that I think should be on the show... This is NOT a song fic, the lyric snippets are just my way of getting the word out on some great music because, honestly, who doesn't like finding out about a cool new song? Anyway, the basic summary of this, because it may get confusing without the proper context, is that Booth's coma lasts a lot longer than a few days, and he experiences more than just one alternate reality... leading him down a tangled road to the point where he doesn't know how to trust reality anymore even once he wakes up and is forced to deal with the consequences. If any of the characters seem out of character, that's intentional... remember that these are figments of Booth's subconscious fears, desires etc. Hopefully it won't get too confusing, and trust me, you'll know in a few chapters when Booth is actually awake and no longer hallucinating, but until then, each chapter will take place inside his subconscious. I hope that gets everybody started on the right page. Okay, on with the story...

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones. This is strictly for fun. The song lyrics aren't mine either but belong to their respective artists.

* * *

The Future in the End by Evans Blue

You're falling asleep  
I can feel you dreaming  
Are you thinking of me  
Are you feeling the love?  
I'm caught in between  
The way it is, how it could be  
I'll never believe  
You wanted me to go

So sleep love  
Just dream love  
And don't let it go  
Just promise you won't  
And I'll be home

I'm ready to leave  
And I hear you whisper to me  
Love hurts, sometimes it works  
Sometimes you gotta let it go  
But you gotta believe  
If it takes your all, then you're ready  
It can never defeat  
What you want

I fall and you follow me in…

They are cradled together in his office lounge chair, the pounding music from below pulsing seismic waves into the concrete and steel of the walls around them, adding delicious vibrations to the staccato rhythm thumping madly inside his chest when he pulls her lips to his again with heady persuasion. It's a soft sliding of tender emotion that shadows them from the noise of the world beyond the glass, and he's more than happy for the barrier that gives him the freedom to share a quiet moment with his wife, the woman who has just informed him that she now holds a new title as well…

The mother of his child.

Their child. He's having trouble wrapping his brain around it, so instead he wraps his arms around her waist and drags her closer still even though she's already draped gregariously across his lap. Her body is warm where she's pressed against him, and he feels cold everywhere that she isn't which is why his hands never quite find a place to rest, instead soothing slowly up the exposed skin of her arms, across the sleek fabric encasing her back, trailing down the side of her throat to the slope of her shoulder. It all feels so sensually new, territory he's never traversed, all the while being so achingly familiar that he just knows that he's touched her everywhere, an infinite number of times, in an infinite number of ways.

He knows that he's touched her every way there is, every way imaginable and some that were impossible until he discovered how, showing scientific reality that it is possible to hold a lover's happiness, to caress their laughter and cradle their tears. Because he's done it all, he knows, even if some of the more detailed anecdotes are misty inside his memory. He's savored her indignance on his tongue, stroked her fears and hesitations with his heart, made love to her brilliance without ever needing to touch her body… because with her, everything is making love. In ways that have nothing to do with sex or even touch, he loves her with his voice and his soul, their emotional coupling something that lingers inside them even when their bodies have long since cooled and separated after their moments of physical passion.

Booth tucks an arm around the small of her back, his fingers lightly tickling her hipbone through her dress as he cups her jaw with the other hand, bringing her face up from the crook of his neck to kiss her again because once is never enough.

He's a reformed gambler, a parting gift from his days in the service. He is no stranger to addiction and knows that when it comes to her, he has no intention of ever learning self-control. He's helpless… hopeless… and perfectly happy to remain so.

She is acquiescent, as she always is to his advances, responding to his silent request with languid fervor, her lips stroking his through the glaze of the pearly gloss that she had chosen to wear that night. His nose bumps against hers as their mouths slant one way and then the other, eager for a taste of every angle and every possible flavor… as if it could ever get any better, he thinks with gentle sardonic smile.

They stay like that for a long while, enjoying each other's gentle petting and shared happiness for the love they've found and built together, the manifestation of their rightfully earned passion nestled safely inside her womb where their hands have intertwined and come to rest protectively overtop. His thumb brushes her knuckles in a silent "thank you" that he desperately wants to give her while his mouth is preoccupied with the curve of her jaw, his teeth nibbling at her skin as his kiss easily morphs from tender gratitude to the heady passion that never wanes for her.

A breathy moan slips unguarded from her throat as his fingertips graze a hot line across her collarbone, and he knows that it's time to leave. Usually they would stay until closing, her in her office beneath a mountain of account logs and receipts while he makes himself useful by helping the employees reorganize the chaos left behind after the concert. But this week has been far from usual…

His brother is in custody tonight, guilty of murdering his wife's would-be assassin. His brother, who is both a detective and very much in lust with Bren, his brother who that same week had tried to convince him of Bren's alleged affair with the Persian, the brother who he had laid out in public for even hinting that such a possibility existed. The brother whose guilt is absolute and undeniable, and Booth has no idea how he is supposed to feel about that.

He is ashamed of the gratitude he feels. He is also ashamed of feeling ashamed because without his brother's guilt, his wife might very well be dead right now instead of glowingly pregnant and coiled about his body in a tired but heated embrace. She is grateful to Jared. She told him so earlier that night, and he wishes that it could be as simple for him but it's not.

It is moments like this that he envies her uncanny ability for logic.

Booth himself had been the initial suspect in the crime… and damned if he wouldn't have been guilty if he'd known about the hit sooner. He wonders if suspicion had ever crossed Bren's mind with any real consideration and is surprised to find that he doesn't care if it did.

She knows he'd kill for her. Without hesitation. Without regret. Without a thought. He can't fault her for knowing when he's promised her that very thing repeatedly since before he even knew of his love for her, but he admittedly had felt better when she had assured him that she knew he was not capable of that kind of cold-blooded style of execution. If he killed for her, it would be all hot-blooded rage and wrenching desperation. It would be visceral and fast and without a breath of consideration for hiding his tracks. It would be messy and rushed and not at all calculating because despite his years of killing in the name of the U.S. Army, death was not something that came easy to his conscience. But that Catholic guilt wouldn't stay his trigger finger when it came to her life. His conscience would happily bear any marks the world could deliver if those were the stakes.

Her touch is getting distracting as she nimbly pops open the top three buttons of his shirt and slips her hand inside to nestle against his heartbeat, and he knows that she can feel that pulsing rhythm pick up speed under the gentle grazing of her fingernails. Smooth, short strokes across his left pectoral have him humming against her lips, her ring finger flicking softly across his nipple with every pass and he shifts his body under her, the steadily hardening tent in his slacks rubbing against her thigh as his hand sneaks below the hem of her skirt, eager to set her ablaze with equally burgeoning desire.

He groans in disapproval when she steals her tongue away from his and rests her forehead against his temple, her breath puffing hotly on his cheek as the crisp, clean aqua of her eye spears his rapidly dilating pupil.

"Take me home, Daddy," she whispers, moving closer so that her lips caress his ear with every breathless syllable.

A shiver sluices down the ridges of his spine, a thrumming tingle fluttering deep in his chest. He loves when she surprises him with those little glimpses behind her coolly professional exterior, those fiery little phrases here and there that show the real woman behind the image of controlled collection. He loves them particularly because he knows those moments are only for him, that she only slips from the armored rationale when they are alone together. He's the only one who knows the volcano… and he's more than happy to keep it that way.

He kisses her softly. One more time for the road, he thinks, barely tearing his lips away before they take on a mission of their own because as eager as he is to unbridle their reined-in passion, he knows that this is not the place. It's not that they have never made love in his office, in fact, he is sure that they have at least a dozen times, but a sudden desire tugs at him with an even stronger come-hither twist, and finds himself craving the bed they share together. His body hungers for the familiarity of their well-worn mattress and the cool tangle of the sheets that will still bear the piquant scent of yesterday's amorous wrestling. Cupping her cheek, he brushes his thumb over the high arch beneath her eye and smiles.

Something flickers inside his head then, like a firefly buzzing through his subconscious during a lightning storm of crackling bolts and heavy thunder, and for just a moment he wonders why he can't remember the first time he ever told her he loved her, the memory glossed in a gossamer mist and just then he thinks that maybe he never has. But that can't be true.

He shrugs at the sheer absurdity. Ridiculous.

"Come on then, baby," he says, nudging her off his lap with a playful shove, catching her swiftly about the waist as he rises to his feet behind her.

They hurry to the door with all the stumbling coordination of hormone-driven adolescents, Booth laughing against the back of her neck as he buries his face in the notch where it meets her shoulder, his broader frame draping heavily over hers as they move in a awkward, half-dancing shuffle across the office floor. Brennan's rich laughter blends seamlessly into the deep, grainy rumble of his as she turns her head back to look at him, an arm curling back behind her to snake about his neck, partially for balance as his blanketing weight trips her forward, but mostly it is just another excuse to touch him.

He knows that she knows that there is no need for her to ever hold on… because he'll never let her fall.

They pack up quickly and say goodnight to Angela as they pass the hostess amongst throng of spectators and club-goers, bid a short farewell to Wendell who's standing vigilant at the entrance, and then they disappear into the cool night air so that they can beat the dawn back to their bed. Because suddenly he's never been so desperate to have her beneath him, around him, surrounding his soul and burning their bodies together in a hot, melting fusion of limbs and breathy moans.

He snags her hand on the way to the car and loves the silly smile that cracks her lips when she glances over at him with a quick blue flicker of nonsensical shyness. With the edgy nervousness of a first date, he swings their entwined hands back and forth in an exaggerated arc between them, the corner of his lips twitching with the same electricity that's assaulting his stomach as he watches her out of the corner of his eye.

His wife. This woman is his wife, he keeps thinking silently to himself. It keeps running through his head, which he shakes in awed disbelief, unable to fully come to terms with the evidence that is staring him in the face, that same which is directly responsible for the lightness in his heart.

The ride home is silent and full of stolen glances and barely contained grins. His fingers play across her knuckles where they rest upon the center console, unwilling to go the whole fifteen-minute drive home without touching her in some way, shape or form. He stops for a yellow light that he really could have made just so that he can lean over, pressing a chaste kiss to the long column of her alabaster throat and inhaling a deep breath to capture the tang of her lemongrass shampoo. She urges his face up higher with a teasing finger along his jaw, and he barely has time to sink in passed the plush barrier of her lips before an impatient car horn tears him away from her kiss and back to the accelerator.

When he finally brings the car to a permanent stop, he is out the door in the flash of an eye, ripping hers open before she can even find the handle. He has her seat belt undone and has her scooped up into his arms before she can even articulate the protest that he knows is coming, his knees dangerously close to buckling with arousal as his hand slinks under the bare skin behind her thighs, his other supporting her back as he lifts her from the car in true bridal fashion.

True to form, she tells him to put her down, that she is perfectly capable of walking on her own.

He snorts and tells her that he's not carrying her, he's carrying the baby and she'll just have to deal with that for the next nine months.

She gives the shell of his ear a sharp nip with her teeth and reminds him that she said no to being carried over the threshold on their wedding night.

"Exactly," he grumbles humorously. "You owe me one grand entrance."

She chuckles softly in his ear, her hot breath tickling all the way down the sensitive canal as she calls him a hopelessly romantic Neanderthal.

He just shrugs as he furrows his brow in a comical attempt to make his dark eyes more hooded and barbaric as he grunts with exaggerated frustration at her stubbornness. When he reaches the landing to the front door of their apartment building, he tells her that if she insists on being such a feminist, she should open the damn door herself since both his hands are full. She just smirks and leans slightly away from his embrace to yank the door ajar enough for him to scoot them forward into the building.

She tries to wiggle free of his arms when he purposefully strides to the elevator because it becomes clear that he has no intention of putting her down any time soon. She tells him that she conceded to him that one threshold and that they're even now. He tells her to stop fidgeting, that she'll just have to suffer the rest of the way to their apartment… she's been accumulating interest on that particular argument since the day they married. As far as he's concerned, she owes him an elevator ride and one more threshold.

Besides, he tells her, everybody knows that the door of the actual dwelling is the only one that really counts. When it looks like she is about to present her rebuttal, he tells her to shush, that she's in his arms already and might as well stay there.

When she pauses to consider a new angle of argument, he nudges the elevator button with his elbow. The kiss that he drops onto her shoulder effectively ends the dispute as she tightens her arms slightly about his neck, letting her head come to rest against the solid strength of his shoulder. She whispers that she loves him. For some reason, he feels his eyes moisten slightly at her gentle confession.

He can't help but take advantage of the enclosed privacy that they find once they are inside the lift, letting his back relax heavily against the wall as he curls his arms a bit more and tilts her into him slightly to catch her lips with his. They don't get carried away yet even though the fingernails that are toying delicately with the hair at the base of his skull are damn near making his eyes cross. She's doing it on purpose, but he's determined to outlast her teasing. He knows that moment will come soon enough and then he'll have her all to himself inside the home that's built of each other, with each other… for each other.

That is the moment that he wants.

He drums his fingers against her ribcage as he waits outside the apartment door while she fumbles with the keys, loving the way her breath hitches oh so slightly every time his index finger catches the underside of her breast with each tap… tap… tap… oh god, he needs her to open the door right now.

The latch finally surrenders with a merciful click, and then they are inside as the door swings shut behind them, quickly forgotten as he sets her on her feet and turns her to face him, his arms stealing about her waist as he gently pulls her bottom lip between his teeth to capture another taste of her.

"Too heavy?" she teases at his sudden eagerness to release her from his arms.

He groans against her tongue as it snakes around his own, and he is hungry to explore every flavor and texture that's just waiting for him inside her kiss. The silky underside her tongue, the slightly rougher topside where her taste buds catch against his while he feeds on her, the ridges and smooth channels along the roof of her mouth that are ticklish to the whisper of his tongue… they are all what he hungers to return to every time is he forced to depart.

"No," he mumbles through the gravel, his hands slipping lower down her back until he's cupping her ass and grinding her pelvis hard against his gently thrusting hips. "Too hard," he growls, pushing forward a little harder to make sure she understands.

He needn't have worried.

She moans so loudly that his stomach flutters in response to the vibrations that her body is pulsing into his, and then he pulls back with one last, soft peck to her lips.

"Go get ready for bed," he breathes against her mouth. "I'll lock up." He swats her backside as she turns away, and she throws him a sexily inviting smile that combines nicely with the impatient arch of her slender eyebrow as she disappears down the hall, not bothering to turn on the lights as she melts into the shadows.

Seconds later he is following her into the darkness.

The lamp on the bedside table is on low, filling the room with a dull orange haze as he pushes open the bedroom door that she left cracked slightly for him. He slips off his suit jacket and leaves it to hang on the doorknob along with his tie, popping free the last few buttons of his dress shirt that Bren had spared while they were back in his office and took that off as well, blindly tossing it in the direction of the hamper. Bare-chested and barefoot, his shoes having been discarded by the front door, he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, studying her as she stands in front of the dresser carefully removing her jewelry.

The zipper that runs the length of her spine has been pulled down to just below her shoulder blades, exposing the smooth white planes of her back to him, and he finds himself mesmerized by the muscle and bone shifting beneath her skin as she moves slightly, studying the way she is built, this vessel that houses the soul of the woman he loves. He finds himself enchanted.

She catches him watching her in the dresser mirror, and her reflection smiles tenderly for him, their eyes snaring, light and dark gazes melding as they meet through the mirror's reflection. This feels oddly familiar, he thinks curiously, like a long forgotten dream rolling on the tip of his tongue like fresh peppermint, weighted with sharp potency as their connection is broken by the shield of glass that they've let slide between them, concealing something of each other even in the plain light. He cocks his head slightly and lets his gaze wander over the shape of her face, the graceful arch of her brow, the soft swell of her high cheekbones, that sharp, piercing crystal blue that had thinned against the push of her flaring pupils.

During his slow perusal of her features, he catches the hesitant, questioning tilt of her chin and tightening around her eyes, and he chooses then to push away from the wall and approach her slowly, his gait sauntering but full of tunnel-visioned intent as he sidles up behind her, his eyes never breaking away from hers even as they narrow and darken with arousing interest. In what he is sure is a subconscious reaction, she braces her hands against the edge of the dresser and widens her stance slightly. He rumbles softly at the faint click of her high heels against the wood floor and drops one hand to rest alongside hers on the dresser. With the other, he slowly begins to trace the line of her spine down the open V of her dress where her back is exposed to him.

She shudders, and he can feel just a hint of tightening in the muscles beneath his seeking fingertip before she forces herself to relax under his feather-light touch, her shoulders dropping slightly although her gaze remains hard and fixed on his dark, predatory stare. He starts where the zipper is resting just below her shoulder blades, brushing upwards with his index finger with all the reverent concentration of Michelangelo's first exploratory strokes on the chapel ceiling… magnificent before it even takes shape, full of promise and unable to do anything but exceed the preconceived grandeur of forethought. His fingertip slips up her spine slowly, loving each ridge and valley of her, mapping the taut sinew, the unyielding bone, the velveteen skin that whispers its alabaster perfection to him.

She sighs, low and breathy, her gaze faltering under the strength of her desire as he finally reaches the nape of her neck, letting his other fingers join in as he sifts them through the hair at the base of her skull, disappearing beneath the dark auburn tendrils while he massages her neck with strong, slow strokes. When a quiet whimper escapes her lips, undoubtedly against her will, he growls from deep in his chest and drops his hand to grip the dresser next to where her knuckles are turning pale with her grip. He cages her in, his long, thick arms framing hers in a delicious contrast of skin tones, pressing his naked chest into her back, molding himself so tightly against her that he can feel the heated V against his chest where her dress allows them to touch flesh to flesh.

Her eyes finally surrender to him, fluttering closed as her head falls forward when he drags his lips across her collar and up the curve of her neck, not quite kissing, instead just a simple, chaste caress where his mouth melts a line across her body, painting her with his lips, his moist flesh catching and wetting hers, breathing in her scent in the hope that one day it will fill him completely from the inside out. His mouth is open and lets his breath puff in hot clouds against the side of her neck, fanning her with his hunger until his nose is brushing against the shell of her ear and she's helpless to hide the hushed, sobbing moans that he's drawing from her body.

He kisses her ear gently and whispers, "Dance with me."

It's not a question.

But for once she doesn't argue, and instead leans back into him, rolling her shoulders with pure feline desire.

His hand slips from the dresser to her hip, sliding his large palm over her abdomen where his thumb can rest against her navel. His other hand slips over top of hers and entwines their fingers as he slowly back them away from the dresser, swaying his hips in a gentle, tender rhythm as he leads her into an easy motion, her back molded against his chest, both of his large hands now splaying over her womb with one of hers tucked safely beneath his. Her other rests lightly on his forearm as she moves with him, stroking his flesh with sweet, loving fingers, and he brings his cheek to rest against hers, smiling softly as her hair tickles his neck.

She turns her head towards him slightly, and he slides his cheek along hers until his lips whisper against her temple.

"You know," he says, his low voice going gruff with dark, subdued passion. "I had a dream about you last night." He kisses the corner of her eye.

He knows she's smiling when she says, "Oh yeah? What kind of dream would that be?"

She nudges her hips back teasingly, pushing her ass tighter against his groin, and he groans and rolls his own hips forward while his hands slide to palm the tops of her thighs.

"Mmm… not that kind of dream," he growls, though he can't help thinking that her suggestion has merit. "It was strange," he continues, though he's not really sure why he suddenly wants to talk about this now. She has a much better idea, sliding her hands overtop of his and rubbing up and down from her thighs to her hips with his big, strong hands, showing him exactly how she is waiting for him to touch her.

"Strange? How so?" she asks breathlessly, and he knows she is humoring him. He loves her more for it.

He hunches over and plants a hot, wet sucking kiss to the side of her neck. "I don't really know. I can't remember most of it… but I kept calling you 'Bones' for some reason," he chuckles, thinking how ridiculous he sounds.

She laughs too as she reaches back to cup his neck, dragging her fingernails in tantalizing slices through his short dark hair. "That is bizarre," she answers throatily. "What do you think that means?"

"You don't believe in subconscious meanings in dreams," he reminds her with amusement, his hands still content to follow the path that she is guiding over the front of her body.

"No," she agrees. "But you do. And you seem to want to talk about it."

He lets one of his hands slip away from hers and drags it higher up her body, burning up the flat plane of her abdomen to palm her breast through the material of her dress, kneading just long enough to coax one delicious groan from her before traveling up her throat to cup her jaw and angle her head towards his. He catches her lips, slipping his tongue inside the warmth of her to slide against her own soft, talented muscle, starved for the way she curls it around his, welcoming and pliant under his invasion.

"It's not important," he murmurs before sinking back in and losing himself completely.

She growls her approval when he spins them slowly in the direction of the bed, his movements never rushed, never breaking the swaying, dancing rhythm of his hips rolling against hers in perfect sync, flawlessly mirroring to soft, pulsing fusion of their lips as they slant and discover and yield everything.

When they reach of the foot of the mattress, his hand comes to a rest on her hip while the other slinks up her ribcage. He breaks their kiss so that his mouth can draw a new line down her neck, gently pushing her forward over the bed until she is bent over prone before him and resting on her forearms, the hand on her ribs moving to the zipper at the center of her back and dragging it down so that his mouth can taste every inch of skin that is revealed as the black fabric is peeled away. He's hunched over her body, draping his massive frame over her smaller, more lithe one, and he just can't resist pushing his hips forward in a tenderly grinding thrust, a subtle reminder of just how submissive her position is to him, thoroughly enjoying the softly mewling sound that it drives from her though she makes no attempt to change their arrangement.

He slips the straps down her arms with her cooperation, his chest swelling with the same masculine pride that's already hardened his cock as she throws her arms above her head, her forehead pressed desperately into the comforter as he drags the material down the length of her body while his fingertips ghost in wayward strokes over her naked flesh. When it's bunched around her hips, her legs part a little wider and she arches her back and pushes back against him a little more, and for a moment he's tempted to take her just like this but that really isn't what he wants from tonight. That's not the memory he is desperate to have lingering in his mind when he wakes up beside her tomorrow morning.

So with a sigh, he pushes the bunched-up dress over her hips and down the length of her legs along with the matching black panties she'd chosen to wear that night. When she's completely naked, barring the spiky black heels that he just can't bring himself to remove from her, he presses a kiss against the small of her back and steps away, his fingers dragging along her hip as he breaks contact.

The moment he's no longer touching her, she pushes herself up and turns over, sitting on the edge of the bed as she gazes up at him with hungry expectation. When he doesn't move, just cocks his head slightly as if in deep thought as he stares down at her, she reaches for the fastening on his slacks.

This is what he wants, he thinks as he watches her undress him, suddenly wishing that he'd left on the button-down dress shirt because it would have been beautiful to watch her free him of it. Would she have kissed his chest as the buttons released with the same fervor as she is now licking his abdomen with as she pops the clasp and drags the zipper down? He thinks she would have, suddenly feeling like he missed out on a great potential memory.

And then his pants are suddenly pooled around his feet along with his boxers, and she's taking him into her mouth and all he can think is that he's been swallowed whole. His soul is gone, everything that makes him who he is has disappeared inside the sweltering, boiling storm of her lips as she sucks him into hell and he is deliriously happy to fall anywhere she lets him, thinking that as long as she is the one who drops him, she'll always know where to find him again inside the inevitability that swirls around them in dark, heady clouds.

Everything happens eventually, he thinks suddenly, though he has no idea why that is the only coherent thought that is able to enter his mind.

He hasn't quite made it to hell by the time she pulls away, but by now he's burning so hot and so hard that he doesn't think he'll survive if she doesn't kill him right this second, and she's so amenable when he pushes her onto her back and crawls up her body that his heart wants to shatter in a crash of loud noise and disbelief, but his body has other plans as his animal hunger answers the primitively feminine call of her own.

Her spine bows upwards as their bodies slide together, inch after deliciously hot inch of flesh rubbing and gliding as they seek out the alignment of their forms, her body taut with all the foreboding of a drawn bowstring, and he quivers with excited anticipation, knowing where he wants to be that exact moment when she snaps loose her release.

She arches higher against the weight of his chest, and he slips a large hand beneath the curve of her hips, lifting her pelvis up to meet his as he thrusts his body forward, making her his own, reminding her of the way that they can only ever be with each other because no one else will ever come close. And now he's rooted even deeper inside her body, the perfect conclusion to the equation of their love growing microscopically inside her body, something that will always be a part of him and a part of her and that holds them captive to each other no matter how willingly and desirously they come.

He knows that he will never be free.

He knows that he never wants to be again. He remembers freedom… and loneliness and dissatisfaction and disappointment, all the casualties that result from casual affairs. If this is his prison, then freedom, he thinks, is only for fools and masochists.

He slides smoothly between her thighs, groaning as they brush against his ribs while he travels higher in search of her lips so that he can sink into her mouth in the same moment that he sinks into her body. Because it's important that they are as joined as possible in that moment, that every part of him that is sensitive to touch is enveloped by hers because for a frightening second he thinks that is the only way he'll be able to burn them together with enough fire that he'll never be able to forget the way she feels… the way they feel together.

The way she is cradling his face in her hands, her lips soft and warm and parted beneath his as their bodies rock together on top of the sheets, on top of the bed that has seen countless nights of their passionate and languorous lovemaking, it's suddenly all too much, his skin so sensitive that it aches under the gentle brush of her fingertips. And for a moment his instinct is to stop, to examine in the hopes of understanding. But he won't give it up, won't back away because the way her hands feel as they stroke his neck and cup his face closer to her own is so mind-numbingly heartbreaking that for a few seconds he can't feel anything else, even the molten sliding of his penetration deep inside her body… it's all lost to the sweet and tender way she accepts his soft kisses and responds with her own gentle ministrations upon his lips.

He's never felt so ill and yet so simultaneously good about anything before, and he only knows that he should be afraid of the knots that are twisting guttural moans from deep inside his chest. He should be afraid of the way this hurts so bad that he can't think of anything else, that this pain might never stop ripping his body apart one chunk of bloodied, dying muscle at a time.

He's terrified. But he doesn't want this to stop. Not now, not ever. In fact, he hopes that it kills him… because he knows that at some point, it's all going to have to come to an end, and then he'll be even more lost and confused than he is right now.

Their tempo speeds up as he loses the battle against the surge of panic that has risen inside him but that he doesn't understand, and she meets him each time, riding every frantic dipping of his hips with effortless enthusiasm. His face hardens as he looks down at her, his mouth thinning into a tight, pensive line while he watches the ripples of pleasure quake over her body and contort her face, and suddenly he feels like such a charlatan in the wake of her orgasm that he drops to his elbows so that he can bury his face in the crook of her neck, hiding as he silently screams a name against her throat.

But the name doesn't belong to her, neither legally nor as any one of the endearments that he has managed to slip beneath her radar throughout their time together. He doesn't understand where it comes from, this moniker that has found its way into his dreams, and now here as it slips into their marriage bed.

It pushes between them, makes him want to curl away from her in shame even as he rolls over onto his back, his arms automatically bringing her close to his side as they struggle to catch their breath together, each of them overwhelmed, though he is the only one who is disturbed by the adrenaline that is flooding his brain and blood and setting his conscience on fire as he lays beside his wife, the woman he loves, with the name _Bones_ floating on a whisper over his lips.


End file.
